Lessons With Cap'n Cook
by OuvreLeChien
Summary: Walt and Jesse cook together for the first time. Walt's POV


_"Uh-uh. Captain Cook, that's a white boy's name. Dopey as hell, too." -Steve Gomez_

I suppressed a sigh and leaned against the wall, watching Jesse crouch down to retrieve the supplies from where he had left them, an insecure location that didn't shock me: the floor. One by one he laid them out across the counter in a haphazard mess, one I expected I would have to sort through before we could get started, if we wanted to do this efficiently and produce something ingestible. He began propping up containers that had toppled over during his quick and graceless unloading, stopping to rub the thick sleeve of his coat across the beads of sweat that had accumulated on his brow. This reminded me both of our cramped working conditions that allowed very little air circulation and of his poor choice of apparel for the task we were about to undertake.

"Okay, Mr. White," He said finally, turning to me. "You ready?"

"Yes," I confirmed. "But I told you to wear the safety gear."

He leaned his head back in an oddly condescending way and rolled his eyes, a gesture of his that was still familiar to me after all these years. "Dude, seriously? Do I need to wear the apron?"

"We're going to be working around high heat," I lectured, impatient at perpetually having to explain the obvious to him. "So you can wear the apron or you can risk scalding yourself when you inevitably spill something."

He glared at me, but turned to go fetch his apron out of the corner all the same, muttering something under his breath that sounded curiously like "You can shut up or risk losing a tooth when I inevitably punch you in the face". I had already suited up properly and went about sorting through the things Jesse had lined up so untidily. There were many things I recognized amongst the items, and I didn't have any expectation that this recipe would be anything I couldn't grasp within the first few moments, but the fact remained that I was new to this and would have to endure the indignity of having Jesse Pinkman play teacher to me just this once.

He came back over, doing up the strings of his apron in a way I think he meant to look defiant, instead only coming off as almost comically haughty. He noticed I was trying to organize his mess and 'subtly' budged me out of the way.

"Excuse me," I huffed.

He gave me a weary look and grumbled: "Let's just get this over with." I figured one comment on my part about him being clumsy (which he is) wouldn't be enough to put him in such an apparently bad mood, and that he was still mad about the fact that he was doing this with me at all. It's not as if I was overjoyed at the idea either, but regardless of how little - how unbelievably, brutally little - that I wanted to work with him, I had to. And for the time being there wasn't a thing either of us could do about it.

"So are we starting?"

"Yeah, get your wrinkly old ass over here already."

I let the insult slide by and he went about setting up the process with surprising adeptness, putting on the heat, opening most of the things we would need, many just powders and liquids we would process into the final product, the end result. I got started on the areas which I already knew my way around, trying to keep one eye on what he was doing, both to learn from watching and to make sure he didn't screw anything up. There was nothing strikingly professional about the way he worked, listening to weird music through his headphones loud enough I could hear it, spinning the utensils in his fingers before using them, drumming his hands distractingly against the smooth countertop during brief periods of waiting for something to heat. Still, he had some bizarre sort of concentration, even in his childish flittering, one that was clear enough that even I, who knew him to be the most inattentive and ineffective candidate for any process more complex than setting a clock, could believe that he had actually set his mind on task. Enough that he was giving me orders.

"Take that. Cut that up. Stir that. Move that. Put that over there. Now put this in. Skim the foam off the top. Let that simmer before you take it off the burner." And then occasionally there were jibes. "Oh shit, did you just drop your glasses? You can't see anything without your glasses. You know, you wear that apron well. Careful, Mr. White, that thing weighs almost five pounds! Watch your mustache."

While my discomfort at the situation didn't particularly decrease during the whole thing, it also wasn't nearly as awful as I anticipated. It was stuffy and what we were doing didn't do much to help that, but the sweating actually appeared to be the worst of it. Watching Jesse goof around was frustrating but not unbearable; I had seen it before and it really made me sort of nostalgic in a way. As I had thought, the recipe was not very pressing to figure out and get a handle on all at once, but for the sake of the experience I allowed Jesse the space necessary for him to be able to pass along instructions and direct me, since most of his displeasure seemed to be going away with the alien prospect of having me listen to him and do as he said, and eventually he threw his headphones down around his neck for more fluent communication. He found some strange delight in bossing me around, so much that he forgot to be a smart-ass about it after awhile.

"This comes off now, right?"

"You got it. Just leave it over there, we'll use it in a minute."

"What about this?"

"Give it to me."

"Do we need this?"

"Oh, yeah, I forgot about it. Nice one, yo."

"Is this all right?"

"Looks good, Mr. White."

And so it went. While I humored his lessons, which were amateurish but effective in their own peculiar way, every now and then I'd offer him some praise for a nicely executed move or any display of a modicum of professionalism, and secretly smile at the way he'd outwardly deflect it with a shrug meant to say "yeah, I already knew that", betrayed by the obvious pleasure his features would be momentarily touched with. Our approaches were mismatched but we managed to find a working rhythm amongst it all, one that showed a little promise and at last gave me some hope that this could really work out after all. And then...

"Now the chili powder," Jesse announced happily, reaching for the little plastic bag full of the offending red adulterant. I immediately slapped my hand over it. He looked up at me, confused and then annoyed. "What the hell, man?"

"I told you before: no chili powder," I reminded him, severely disappointed that he had either forgotten or disregarded this stipulation.

He scowled and slipped his hand under mine, almost wrenching the bag away before I had a chance to get my grip on it. "And I told you to get stuffed," He said. In so many words, I suppose that is what his reaction was to my ban of his ridiculous 'chili P'. He pulled against me, I pulled back. "Let go!"

"You are _not _adding chili powder. Why can't you just accept that?"

He growled in a decidedly vexed way, seemed ready to unleash a barrage of angry curses upon me, then opted for an attempt at explanation. "Look, man, I know you're like, a purist or whatever, but this _needs _chili powder. I would know, I've actually tried it."

"Forgive me for not trusting your sense of taste," I patronized, not relinquishing my hold on the plastic bag. Instead of some cutting remark, Jesse just tugged harder against me, enough to tear a large hole in the bag, sending the powder flurrying to the ground. For a second I thought I was victorious, that he had spilled his beloved chili powder and thus foiled his own attempt to sully our work, but my hopes were immediately squashed when his outstretched palm flashed out and caught some of the tumbling ingredient, and he threw it into the mix before I could stop him.

"Agh, you idiot!" I snapped, lamenting the spoilage of what we had labored over as Jesse swept the last of the red dust from his fingers.

"Jesus, calm down," He admonished me, and dismissed his transgression and stupidity with a smug tilt of his head and a smirk that made me wish we were in a classroom so I could smack him with a ruler. "Just try some and you'll see."

I gaped at him._ "Try some?" _I repeated incredulously. "I am absolutely not trying any of that, and I wouldn't want anyone else to either! This is just... This whole thing was a mistake, I can see that now. I should have never-"

While I was griping, he shoved some of the ruined creation in my mouth. I froze in disbelief and just about spat it back in his face... then the taste of it melted on my tongue and my senses went into near ecstasy. "This is... My God!" I exclaimed. "This is delicious!"

"I know," Jesse smirked again, with a more knowing than smug look on his face, and also with some pride in his expression as he watched my reaction. "Mexican oxtail beef soup," He said informatively. "My aunt's recipe. Wait until you try dipping some hot tortillas in this shit, yo."

What I would have done for some tortillas at that moment. I seized the spoon he had so kindly jammed in my mouth and quickly went to the sink to rinse it so I could get another taste. "This is just incredible," I rambled. "I can't even tell there's chili powder in it! This is going to be perfect for the school faculty barbecue. Wow. Honestly, I have to apologize for not taking your word on this. But you have to understand why I was skeptical about your, uh, 'mad skills'."

Jesse was still looking at me with some amusement, impressed that I was impressed. He untied his apron and threw it carelessly onto the ground, then leaned against the counter confidently and crossed his arms.

"They don't call me Cap'n Cook for nothing, bitch."

...

**A/N:** Twist!

XD sorry, I know it's stupid. But I wanted to do it.


End file.
